But survival, I realized, was never about control.

It was about what you did when the recipe fell apart.

I picked up a broom and began to sweep the broken glass into a small pile.

The shards made a clean, musical sound as they gathered together.

The physical cleanup of my kitchen took three hours.

I scrubbed the blood from the floorboards using cold water and hydrogen peroxide.

I threw away the broken jars of preserved lemons and the ruined flour.

By four in the morning, the kitchen was clean, though the smell of bleach remained.

I sat at the kitchen island, a hot cup of black tea between my hands.

The sun was beginning to rise, painting the sky in pale shades of pink and grey.

My phone rang, the sound loud in the quiet house.

It was an officer from the state attorney’s office.

“Clara?” the voice asked. “This is Assistant State Attorney Vance’s supervisor, Marcus Vance.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m here.”

“We’ve reviewed the files you sent,” Marcus said. “And the footage from your home.”

“Is it enough?” I asked.